Page 16 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

WREN

Hudson has never been known for his punctuality, and it was always a point of contention between us.

Apparently, it still is. Although now, I almost hope he’s late.

I’ll have some material for the next e-mail thread, and I decide to spend the next two minutes coming up with a witty tally to sign off with next time.

The seats are almost full now and the loud chatter of individual conversations blends into a cacophony of noise echoing through the room. From my seat at the front of the room, I scan the crowd. Still no sign of Hudson.

I check the shiny mother-of-pearl watch face on my wrist again, and right as the second-hand hits the twelve, he strolls up to take his seat at the table. Seven o’clock on the dot.

“I beat you here,” I say out the side of my mouth. “Better not make it a habit to show up to everything at the last minute, it won’t reflect well on the project lead .” I emphasize the last two words.

“I’m right on time, Miller,” Hudson says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a cheeky smirk. “Eyes on your own lane, or whatever they say.”

“The saying is ‘stay in your own lane, eyes on your own—’” But before I can correct him, he’s standing in front of the crowd and using his deep, rumbling voice to get their attention.

The sound of it sends a jolt through me, an unexpected flutter of something that feels a lot like attraction at the way he’s suddenly in command of the room.

A hush falls over the crowd as he welcomes them and begins explaining the purpose of the public forum. He points out the microphone in the aisle and explains that, after a quick presentation, everyone will have the chance to ask questions or make suggestions for the arts centre.

Against every one of my instincts, I agreed to let Hudson lead the public forum.

The town is familiar with him, and he’s done these things before.

I also secretly thought it would be an opportunity to watch him crash and burn in front of everyone.

The last thing I was expecting was for Hudson be prepared, to get up there and stand with such presence, such confidence.

He clicks on the projector and starts by introducing the arts centre, the vision and purpose for it.

He explains how beautiful Heartwood is, and how we should have a space in town to celebrate it’s beauty.

He flicks through the slides, one by one, showing different angles of the lot, explaining where the building will be situated, details about parking, and other logistical considerations to be aware of .

When the presentation is over, he invites people to form a line at a microphone. I stand up, brush the wrinkles out of my dress pants, and prepare to take over the question-and-answer portion of the evening.

The first person approaches the microphone, a middle-aged man dressed in a brown argyle sweater vest, jeans, and leather loafers. He has aviator style reading glasses on which he pushes up his nose with one finger, before tapping on the microphone.

“My name’s Norm.”

“Hi, Norm,” I answer. “What’s your question?”

“I would like to know if the arts centre is going to have a drawing or painting studio.”

“Yes, in fact, it will,” I reply. It’s one of the things I’m most excited to design.

“Good. Good.” Norm thinks for a moment, rubbing his beard in his hands.

There’s another question lying beneath the surface, so I wait a moment before calling up the next person.

“Will there be opportunities to volunteer as the nude model? I’ve done it a few times before and there’s something about it that gives me a rush. ” He winks.

My smile, the professional one that is pleasant and approachable, shifts into a grimace. This guy is a total pervert.

“No,” I snap. “No, there will not be opportunities to volunteer as a nude model.” I gag on the words. “If the arts centre does hold nude drawing or painting classes, they will be hiring a professional. Next question, please.”

Norm sulks away from the microphone and I breathe a small sigh of relief. I’ve learned not to even entertain those types of conversations. Shut them down immediately and don’t feel bad about it.

The next person who walks up to the stand is a young woman who looks to be around my age. She’s plain looking and pale, with messy, dirty blond hair falling around her shoulders, but she looks sweet. She looks like someone who might make a decent contribution.

“Hi. Thank you for taking the time to answer my question.” She clears her throat and glances around the room nervously.

I tap my foot on the polished, hardwood floor, the toe of my heel making a clicking noise.

Hudson turns and looks down at it for a moment before snapping his eyes up to meet mine.

He flashes me a dirty look and mouths the words stop it .

I still my foot, but I’m getting impatient.

This whole evening is a waste of time. Never in my entire career have I participated in a public forum like this.

I take blueprints from a developer and either approve them or give them a list of things to fix, and not once do they even entertain the idea of getting input from the town about whatever they’re building.

If they do, it’s only for appearances. But I guess that’s the whole point of taking this project on.

VanTek needs to demonstrate that they have a moral and ethical compass, and that means involving themselves at the community level.

And I need that promotion. So, here we are.

I focus again on the woman standing at the microphone. It feels like it has taken her ages to finally work up the courage to speak, but finally she gets her question out.

“I make porcelain dolls,” she starts. Okay, creepy , I think.

Whenever someone brings up porcelain dolls, I’m reminded of the one my grandmother got me that stared at me from the top of my closet.

I shoved her up there because I was terrified of her unblinking eyes.

“And I would like to suggest that there should be a room designated to displaying my creations.”

“Absolutely the fu—” My sentence is cut off by Hudson before I can say something truly unprofessional. Hudson stands up from where he’s been casually leaning on the table at the front of the crowd and wanders over to stand next to me.

“I bet your dolls are beautiful, Sarah,” he starts.

I don’t know whether to be truly pissed at him taking over my portion of the presentation, or thankful for him saving me from ruining myself.

“At this time, we won’t be considering reserving any rooms for a specific purpose, but once the centre is built, we can consider having a display case in the lobby or something along those lines for artists and creators to submit their work. ”

A very diplomatic answer. And it must appease Sarah, because she smiles and offers a quiet “Thank you” before turning and finding her seat.

We go through the rest of the questions.

A few of them are legitimate things like how accessible the building will be for people with disabilities, and environmental concerns about where the building is situated in relation to the river.

There are more ridiculous suggestions thrown in there too, and Hudson meets them with tact and respect, and a level of professionalism I was not expecting from him.

The arts centre portion of the evening wraps up, and we let the crowd break for an intermission and some refreshments before the town council takes over and goes over other city business.

Hudson approaches me at the refreshments table where I’m pouring coffee from a large metal carafe into a Styrofoam cup.

I normally don’t have caffeine this late, but now I’m determined to make progress on this design, and with the vote coming up in less than a week, I’ll need to get a jump on it tonight.

“Might want to work on your delivery, Miller. You’re lucky I was there to jump in when I did.”

I eye Hudson as I sip my coffee, trying to formulate a quippy response, but I’m done putting on an act to seem more palatable.

I’m here to do a job, I’m here to get this project under my belt so I have something to take back to my boss.

I am not here to pander to the people around me, least of all Hudson.

“Sorry if I don’t want to entertain Mark’s suggestion for an entire wing dedicated to claymation.

” I don’t hide my eye roll. Seriously, the audacity of some people, thinking this building is for them and them alone.

I’m all for exploring different mediums and appreciating all art, but this centre is for everyone to enjoy.

If we start making promises to people like Mark and Sarah and anyone else who wants a space for their niche hobbies …

it will mean fewer people will want to come and enjoy the space.

“Claymation is a highly underrated art form.” Hudson’s blue eyes flash with a hint of mischief.

I’m about to respond when a bright and cheerful voice approaches.

A petite, curvy blond appears from behind him.

She’s gorgeous, and she sidles up to Hudson with a level of comfort that catches me off guard.

This must be Emma , I think, schooling my features back to their neutral, professional expression, trying not to give away any emotion.

“Hey,” she greets Hudson, and I don’t miss the awkwardness in her body language. Hudson turns towards her, pulling her in for a stiff hug.

“I’m glad you made it,” he says, and then he turns back toward me, his eyes darting between us. “Wren, this is Emma. Emma, Wren.”

Emma extends her delicate hand towards me, and I shake it politely.

I offer a smile that I can tell doesn’t reach my eyes.

I shouldn’t be cold towards her—she’s doing me a favour after all, making sure Hudson is preoccupied so I can take the project lead role from him.

Still, there’s something about Emma that makes my insides feel all twisty and weird.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Emma says, a bright smile lifting her entire face, making her blue eyes sparkle. She’s pretty, and she’s nice. Warm, friendly. Total opposite of me.

“Hi,” I answer back.

“Wren and I are both creating a design for the arts centre, and then we’re going to hold a vote. Whoever wins will take the lead on the project.” Hudson explains it so casually, as if, to him, it’s nothing but a friendly game. “You can help me with my design if you like.”

Emma’s face lights up at the prospect of being involved in it. I grind my molars together. This isn’t a game to me, it’s full-on warfare, and I don’t want anyone interfering. Before I have the chance to say anything, Emma squeals with delight.

“Ooh! That sounds so fun!” She peers up at Hudson, eyes aglow with what looks to me like admiration and attraction. “I would love to help you.”

Hudson gives her a look that says Oh yeah?

“No, no, no. This is between us,” I interrupt, waving my hand between Hudson and me. “And it’s against the rules.”

“What rules?” Hudson looks stunned, like it’s surprising to him that I’m taking this seriously. I don’t care if this is some childish game to him. This is the future of my career. And we did not agree on getting help. “We never made any rules, so if I want to have Emma’s help, then Emma can help.”

Emma looks like a deer caught in the headlights, wide eyes darting between us.

“It’s okay. I don’t want to get in between …”

“No, Emma. Don’t.” Hudson turns to her and places a hand on her shoulder. “I would love your help with the design.” He shoots me a glare out of the corner of his eye as he says it.

Suddenly it feels like there’s a little less air in here, like the walls are closing in on me. My chest is feeling tight. I catch myself gnawing on one of my fingernails and quickly shove my hand in my pocket.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing past Emma and through the crowd of people until I find the door out of City Hall into the parking lot.

I breathe in a gulp of air, but I still can’t seem to get enough.

I find a bench to sit on for a moment, and I rest my hands on my knees, thinking if I lean forward, I’ll be able to catch my breath.

But I can’t, and the edges of my vision start to blur.